


until the sky falls down over me

by clumsyhearts



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, a bit sad but that's okay, in which i am an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 01:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19842454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsyhearts/pseuds/clumsyhearts
Summary: Anne wonders about her and Gilbert's relationship, because sometimes a good thing can'tjustbe a good thing.The song of the title is Truly Madly Deeply, covered by Yoke Lore.





	until the sky falls down over me

**Author's Note:**

> i am just really soft for them  
> \+ set in Boston, MA

_"I wanna stand with you on a mountain  
I wanna bathe with you in the sea"_

.

Somedays, inexplicably, she worries she is not good enough.

It is in moments like these little snapshots, where she has woken before him and has time to study his face in the filtered light through the curtains, where she doubts herself in small waves. Where his chest rises and falls with measured stillness, little dust specks flitting themselves into the spaces between his eyelashes and sunlight playing its slow way across his neck and jaw. 

She wonders, as she fights to keep her eyes open, if his waiting was worth it. If his years of silent companionship as he waited for her to mature was a sacrifice he made happily. If now that he is with her, officially, he regrets his time. Regrets choosing _her_.

He breathes in a deep way as he stirs, eyelids cracking open to reveal pools of brown underneath the skin, squinting through the soft light as he stares at her. She sits up, shifting the blankets towards him, and swoops down to press a kiss to the base of his jaw before her insecurities can get the better of her, and the way he smiles tiredly as he watches her emerge from bed and tug on a sweatshirt over her tank top makes her lips tug upwards.

.

It is in moments where she meets with other people who love him that she begins to wonder. 

His college roommate, whom Anne meets when she is helping him lug brown cardboard boxes out of the dormitory (she has a job, can afford rent for an apartment, wanted someone to live with; things just happened to work out), laughs when Gilbert introduces her.

“Holy shit,” he says, sticking out his hand, jostling his earbuds. “ _The_ Anne? You know you’re like, the Gilbert Blythe version of the Queen of England, right?”

“Hey!” Gilbert groans. “I happen to love Liz.”

She shakes his hand and laughs, a little uneasily. “Yep,” she offers, in response to the roommate. “The Anne.”

He barks out a laugh. “Holy shit, man, you weren’t kidding,” he says, turning to Gilbert, who is now unmaking his bed, shoving linens into a box. “She _is_ a redhead.”

Gilbert shakes his head. “ _That’s_ what you got out of my many hours of rambling about her?”

Anne shakes her head, too, loose red hairs tumbling around her face, and starts pulling books off of shelves. Wondering, of course, if this is how all of Gilbert’s friends knew her; the redhead he was obsessed with, _your red-haired girlfriend_. 

It might be stupid, but she yearns – _needs_ – to be notable for some other reason than her red hair – which is auburn now anyways! – she yearns to be necessary to him because she is intelligent and provides clarity to his thoughts. She is not extremely clear on the terms and conditions of being Gilbert Blythe’s girlfriend, anyways. Does she need to be better than his friends at being friendly? Is she required to help him study constantly? To _mother_ him? (God, she hopes not.)

If she can’t figure out her role soon, will he regret it – _all_ of it – the years spent as her friend – the weeks they’d spent lying tangled in linens together, tracing circles in the sheets and murmuring words across the checked pillows? 

Does he already regret defining himself as _that medical student with the red-haired girlfriend?_

She soon brushes these micro-aggravations out of her head to focus on her boyfriend (a new word that tasted sweet when paired with his name) and his lack of coordination. He swears profusely as he drops the box full of textbooks on his foot and Anne has to choke down laughter as she drags the box off his foot, until she realizes he’s laughing already and it’s safe for her to make fun of him now. Something – somewhere – clicks a little bit, and something – somewhere – lets her have this moment of laughter.

.

It is in moments where she forcefully collides with other women he has loved that she doubts herself.

Christine, with her silky hair and her soft skin and a laugh like little bells, like a human-sized Tinker Bell. Anne runs into her while she is out shopping, clutching at tortillas and lemons in her basket, Christine carrying a box of protein bars. 

The pleasantries they exchange are brief – Anne had only ever met the woman once, while she was still with Roy and Gilbert with her – and lacking in civility, and after Anne pays for her odd assortment of groceries and shoves her way onto the subway she has to sit and think in silence. 

She thinks about offhanded comments she makes where Christine might keep her lips sealed, or sunburns she acquires where Christine spreads sunscreen. She thinks about their laughter and how her own laugh is much harsher, shorter, more like a bark than a giggle. She thinks about her hair – coarse, thick, rough, curly, not at all like Christine’s soft waves and silk.

By the time she clambers out of the train, shoving through crowds of people to return to her apartment, she’s shoved the notions of self-doubt well enough out of her mind. The click of keys into the apartment lock and the brown curls that emerge from the depths of the sofa greet her and her bag of odd items. 

When asked about her day, the notions creep their ugly way back into her head. She responds simply, with a “Tiring,” and listens to his wholehearted agreement as he laments over the terrible doctor he’s shadowing under, before crawling under his arm and burrowing into his side to listen to his chest rise and fall and feel the localized vibrations of his voice. The smallness of her self-doubt folds itself into a little paper, tucked in the back corner of her brain, drowned out by the voice of the man whom she’s in love with.

And later he checks to make sure she’s okay, pressing a kiss to her hair and asking without words what has her in such a funk. She tells him she’s fine, because she really _is_ , and she knows he doesn’t believe her but he lets her lie anyways. 

.

It is in moments where she is grasping his palm, wading through crowds of people, trailing him as he makes to introduce her to the doctor she’s heard so much about, where she feels as if she is not worthy. Where she grips the hand of the doctor and listens with a plastered grin to the same story about how her handshake is _so firm_. Where she feels Gilbert’s hand brush hers and grasp and squeeze before letting go to continue gesturing with his story. 

She does not know what it is about these dinner parties that brings out the doubt in her, but it’s not been an hour before she excuses herself from an extremely intriguing discussion about sickening nurses’ tales to step outside onto an apartment ledge and breathe in the city air. 

Perhaps it’s a combination of the richness of this apartment in comparison to her own – where the walls crumble and the sink drips and the floorboards creak – and her growing feelings of doubt that causes this little breakdown, but she tries not to cry out of anxiety. Because that would be so tragic, and so cliché, crying on this apartment during a dinner party, neglecting her boyfriend and his needs.

He finds her there not two minutes later, and buries himself into her, asking her what was wrong, and if she was feeling alright, and if she wanted to go _home_.

Home.

Her little apartment, shitty condition and all. Paired with two people who were grateful to be alive above all else, and more grateful to be alive and breathing together, piecing together the parts of their lives and their apartment together. 

The notion of building a home with Gilbert chokes her up a little more, and she insists, without much success, that she’s fine and just needed to breathe for a minute, and he lets her believe she’s fooled him for a little while longer.

It’s not until they are standing, fingers entangled and Gilbert holding onto the pole, in the mostly-empty subway car when she finally summons the courage to confess –

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve you.”

He sighs and squeezes her fingers tightly before letting go of her hand to wrap her into his side. Staring down at her and planting a soft kiss to her temple before muttering to her,

“Anne, you deserve to be loved. More than anyone else I know.”

“Do you regret waiting for me?”

“I _chose_ you, Anne. I choose you every morning and every second of every day because you make me happy. And I hope you choose me every day because I make you happy, or whole, or perfectly content.”

He rubs her back with his free hand, letting her sop up the tears she is trying not to cry, before continuing.

“It’s not about _deserving_ ,” he says, emotion catching in his throat, too. “It’s about _choosing_. And I choose you. Because I’m - I'm in love with you. Not because someone else told me to or because it was convenient. Because I would move mountains to see you smile and because I would sacrifice myself for you and because I want to grow with you and because _I love you_ , Anne.”

She glances up at him, and the softness around his eyes, and the little dimples in his cheeks, and remembers the little secrets about him that only she knows. His ticklish point, between his ribs, and how if he laughs hard enough, he can’t breathe and has to clutch onto her to remain upright and conscious. How he whispers in his sleep, and sometimes it’s calling for his father or swearing at his studies but mostly it’s for _her_ , whispering her name into her neck. The way he grasps onto her in crowds, daring someone to come between them, refusing to let go now that he has held on. How he falls back onto her in comfort, smiling at her when she’s talking, resting his chin on her head and wrapping his arms around her.

How he breathes when she kisses him, like the world is collapsing around him and this is the only moment that matters to him, and how he presses back, melting into her touch.

“You believe me?” he asks, and she wipes at her eyes and laughs stupidly, the length of the day and the emotions crashing around her.

“I love you, Gil,” she mutters, and stands on the her toes to match his height before pressing her mouth into his, and his response is lost in her mouth somewhere.

.

And those moments still hit her, where she feels utterly lost. Wallowing in self-doubt for a second before brushing the ideas away. Because he goes to her before anyone else and he sinks his lots with her and trusts her and loves her. _Deserving_ be damned. 

Gilbert Blythe deserved happiness, and so did she. And those things, she was starting to realize, had the same definition.

And her method of choosing happiness involved their little apartment and running her fingers through his messy curls and murmuring words to the head that lay in her lap and choosing to be happy.

It is in moments like these where she lets go.

**Author's Note:**

> find me other places  
> on wattpad: [@ffairlyfloral](https://www.wattpad.com/user/ffairlyfloral)  
> on pinterest: [@ffairlyfloral](https://www.pinterest.com/ffairlyfloral/)  
> or right here on ao3: [@clumsyhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsyhearts)


End file.
